


A Cat in Gloves: Part 5

by esoemp



Series: A Cat in Gloves [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Sexual Assault, BAMF John Watson, BAMF Sherlock, BDSM, Cock Cages, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Dom/sub Play, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Makeup Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-12
Updated: 2017-02-12
Packaged: 2018-09-23 17:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9668606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esoemp/pseuds/esoemp
Summary: Samantha finds out Sherlock received a file about her from Mycroft and discovers the identity of her stalker.Sherlock loses his ever lovin mind. Angela makes another appearance with some demands of her own.Only Mycroft could have delivered this file to him. But only Sherlock would have had the gall to read it. God. But it was so utterly thorough. Seeing her life reduced to a semi-objective set of psych evals, medical histories, and assessments was the pinnacle of insulting to who she was as a person. Did he think of her as a person? Or some sick experiment? She began to laugh hysterically despite herself. This was funny wasn’t it? Only this could happen to her. She would never be truly whole. It was all right there in black and white. “Others expected to emerge with time.”





	1. Words Are Like Guns When You Shoot The Moon

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! Well this series is nearing the end. I am not finished with this entirely, still need some re-writes and I want to add some more sex scenes and maybe, if I'm really lucky another case. But I really want to get A Cat in Gloves put to rest so I can try some other things and play more with my Johnlock friends. Please let me know if you have any suggestions or comments--I really appreciate the feedback and thanks for reading!

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Samantha thumbed through the file in Sherlock’s bedroom. _Her file_. An influx of tears streamed down her face again with each page she turned. It was like a faucet that wouldn’t stop leaking. _He knew everything_. Everything about her except the _one thing_ she suspected. Thank God those records had probably been destroyed. Only Mycroft could have delivered this file to him. But only Sherlock would have had the gall to read it. _God_. But it was so utterly _thorough_. Seeing her life reduced to a semi-objective set of psych evals, medical histories, and assessments was the pinnacle of insulting to who she was as a person. Did he think of her as a person? Or some sick experiment? She began to laugh hysterically despite herself. This _was_ funny wasn’t it? Only this could happen to her. She would never be truly whole. It was all right there in black and white. _“Others expected to emerge with time.”_

She was so angry she thought she’d pass out several times over the course of her examination of his betrayal. They were supposed to be lovers and yet why did that idea seem so preposterous now? The affection, the attention, the _“ma chéri’s”_ —was it all just an act? Samantha had seen him wear his own “masks” for a case. Why wouldn’t her “case” be any different?

Only moments before she’d been hunting for an earring that fell under the bed and hoping she wouldn’t run her hand over an experiment or a dead mouse that might have escaped Alice, who luxuriated in the corner of her glass enclosure across the room on Sherlock’s dresser. The experiment she found instead left her in an uncomprehending mess of emotions.

When had she become so naïve? She’d almost let go of the idea he was different from the others and yet…it was Sherlock. He _was_ different. He was the only man who’d had all the facts. Well, most of them. Unless Mycroft had the decency to remove the first file—the very first one that she believed contained all her unconfirmed suspicions—then at least that part of her history was still sacred. Even if it was the one truly ugly thing she wanted to hide from everyone until the day she died it was _still hers_. In disgust she realized she still loved Sherlock and had been considering whether should keep her discovery in his bedroom a secret from him, if only to live out her fantasy a little longer. Even if it had been an act for him, he’d given her the most joy she’d ever experienced. And the greatest sense of safety. Samantha’s mind reeled in a thousand scenarios and discarded strategies of how she could still make this work. But maybe it was for the best. Eventually he would have gotten bored. He had tried to protect her from The Work—or was that John’s influence? She felt so stupid for not seeing it before. John was Sherlock’s handler. John’s words rang in her ears, “He’s going to use you, you know.”

“Samantha? Yoohoo!” Mrs. Hudson was coming in to tidy the flat.

Fuck.

Samantha tried to wipe her face, but there was no way to hide her pain. Her eyes were swollen and her nose was dripping. She tried to choke back the sobs but she wretched with every breath. _Not now. Do not have a panic attack now._

“Just a minute, Mrs. Hudson! I’ll be right out,” Samantha did her best to sound at least sane as she grabbed her carryall and bolted for the door.

“Oh! My dear…whatever is the matter?” Sweet Mrs. Hudson. She had no idea did she? Surely she wasn’t privy to the “Samantha Experiment”?

“No. I…can’t, Mrs. Hudson. I’m sorry. I have to go.” Samantha pushed back the poor woman as she made a beeline for the door. “Please take care of yourself!” She called as she ran down the stairs and burst into the street, gasping for air. _Not now. Can’t stop breathing now._ Have to get home. _Maybe she could just die at home._ Somewhere a familiar little voice inside her said that would be ok. That it was welcome in fact. It was time to let it go. Let go of the pain. She’d be reincarnated into someone else in the next life perhaps. Surely she’d learned everything she needed from this life to warrant some sort of do over. _No._ Samantha willed herself to stay cognizant. She didn’t have to listen to that voice. _Others will emerge with time._ “No no no no no,” she mumbled the mantra over and over again as she ran, her heart and feet thumping in the same rhythm on the slick pavement. She would run herself out. Yes. That was a good plan. Her body was just a vessel and it needed to be emptied was all.

Rounding a corner in an alley she nearly collapsed from the harsh intake of air in her lungs. _God, so out of shape._ Foolishly she’d thought the “workouts” with Sherlock were enough. _Hate him. Hate him so much._ Why couldn’t he have just loved her? She was getting dizzy and teetered on the edge of the abyss but a hand caught her arm.

“Samantha?” A voice. A familiar voice. Why was it familiar? It didn’t belong in London…The man in the trench coat looked at her with boundless affection. It was one of Nathan’s friends. What was his name again?

 _Don’t like him. He’s bad._ Another voice had grown insistent. It wanted to come out.

“It’s me, Samantha. Billy Mathers. You remember me don’t you? That stuff before with your condition, don’t worry now. All water under the bridge. Let me help you…”

And suddenly the world went white.

It was so much better with Sherlock.


	2. A Crack In Our Gauge

“You have to find her, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson begged and shook his arm. “She wasn’t right. She wasn’t right!” Tears coated her cheeks and she was hysterical. “She said to ‘please take care of myself’! Do something! _DO SOMETHING_!”

Sherlock swayed where he stood like a statue tilting off its pedestal, his mind searching for answers but coming up empty. Samantha was supposed to be waiting there for him to get back with John. She was fine when he left…“Mrs. Hudson, PLEASE! You have to calm down. Tell me what happened,” his voice cracked under the strain of having to wait for her answer.

“I came into the flat and she ran out of there,” Mrs. Hudson pointed to his bedroom, “and she was crying but she wouldn’t stop and then she said she couldn’t…I don’t know what she meant…but then she was gone Sherlock! She just ran!” Mrs. Hudson looked at him imploringly as he spun on his heel.

_The file. She’d found the file. It was over._

_She would leave._ Sherlock’s face convulsed into pure agony and his throat squeezed shut.

 _She would leave._ He had to get to her before she left. “Tell John I’ve gone to look for her,” he shouted at Mrs. Hudson. “Tell him we have to find her.” _Before it’s too late._ Sherlock rushed down the stairs nearly falling on the last step as he struggled to maintain his balance. _THINK_ , his mind screamed. Where would she go? Would she go home? Check there first. At least if she was there he would know she was safe, even if she wouldn’t speak to him or let him in. The air was humid and ugly. _It was all so ugly._ She was leaving his world and it was already this ugly.


	3. Boy Your Boots Can Leave A Mess

Sherlock made it to her flat in 10 minutes and banged on the door, gasping for air and calling her name. “Samantha, please. _Please_ listen to me.”

No answer came. It was silent. He didn’t need to pick the lock to know she wasn't there. Her scent would have lingered at the door but it was too faint. Too cold. Sherlock’s eyes stung and he cursed, unwilling to give into the panic that threatened to overtake him. Was she suicidal? What would she do… _THINK_. You _know_ her. You know her habits. She might have gone to the lab. No. Too open. Too vulnerable there. The bookstore was the same. The library? No. Too open. Where would someone who’d been wounded so horribly have gone to escape? _Her mind. She went into her mind._ Was she Samantha anymore? Where would she have gone? Marianne? No forests. Annabelle? _Angela._ Angela would have gone to a bar. She liked to drink. Needed somewhere to smoke. A pub… _with another man._

Sherlock couldn’t indulge himself in resentment. He caused this. He brought this about. Instead he focused on the locations of every pub and tavern within a two mile radius and took out his phone to call John.

“Sherlock what happened?” John was…what was John? He wasn’t angry. He was scared.

“Samantha found the file. She’s gone.” He inhaled deeply. “She’s not at her flat. I don’t know where she’s gone. I’m going to check every pub in the vicinity in case she…isn’t herself.” The last words hung in the air, vibrating with threatening intensity. It was painful to admit he might have caused his love to dissociate.

_That he’d done it again._

“Right then.” Again John seemed completely devoid of emotion. He was in military mission mode. Sherlock was relieved. Good. Talk later. Action now.

Between the two of them they searched every possible locale but to no avail. _It was getting so dark._ Sherlock went back to her flat but she was still not there. He picked the lock anyway and searched her rooms for any sign of her returning or where she might be going, coming up empty.

Never had Sherlock hated his brother more than this moment, but he made the call.

“WHERE IS SHE?” Sherlock pierced the air with his panic.

A pause, and then with a tone of seriousness uncharacteristic of Mycroft he answered. “We don’t have her Sherlock.”

“FIND HER. JUST BLOODY FIND HER. RIGHT NOW. DO WHATEVER YOU HAVE TO DO, MYCROFT.” Sherlock didn’t bother to hide the rage or the fear in his voice. It didn’t matter. As long as she was safe he didn’t care about his pride anymore.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Mycroft stated simply and rang off.


	4. But I haven’t Seen Barbados

Samantha groaned as she sat up in the bed. How long had she been out this time?

“Oh good, you’re up,” Billy brought her a glass of water with a smile and Samantha accepted it gratefully. Her mouth was dry, her eyes were puffy, and she really didn’t give a damn what happened to her at this point. “There’s a good girl.” Billy seemed pleased as she guzzled it, the water streaming out the sides of her mouth.

“You know, I was afraid you’d forgotten me.” Billy winced a little as he said that. Had he loved her or something? Samantha didn’t think so, but he seemed genuinely concerned for her. He and Nathan weren’t the best of friends, but they were bar buddies back in Atlanta.

“Thanks,” she took a deep breath and set the glass on the table.

“I have something stronger…you look like you might need it.” Billy offered up the Jack Daniels he’s secreted from his luggage with a grin and Samantha laughed.

“Maybe so. But I should be getting home. It’s been and long day and—”

“Aw, don’t be like that,” Billy coaxed. He was making Samantha uncomfortable. Where _was_ she anyway?

Billy came to sit next to her on the bed and she flinched. This was bad. He had some ideas she wasn’t too enthusiastic about.

_Have to get out. Now._

“Just have a little,” he offered again, pouring a tall one in her water glass on the nightstand next to the bed. “Then you can leave.”

Drugs. He had laced the whiskey. That had to be it. The bottle was already open. How stupid did he think she was?

“Ah, no, really I have to be going. Maybe another time?” Samantha was hopeful. _How brave was Billy?_ Her eyes flitted about the room looking for a weapon. Where was her bag? Pepper spray in a closed room. She’d have to aim carefully but she could probably manage.

“I have to leave tomorrow though. Had business out here and all.” He looked dejected. But Samantha wasn’t fooled. Every instinct in her body cried that his man was dangerous. He was definitely the one who’d been following her only a couple weeks ago. How long had he been in town on “business”?

“You know what?” Samantha lied and laughed, “I think I will take you up on that drink. But only if you have one too. I don’t like drinking alone.” She made a little apologetic wave with her hand to signal her submission.

Billy brightened considerably. “That’s my girl!” He took a greedy swig from the bottle of Jack and wiped his mouth with his hands.

So it wasn’t drugged. Or he wanted to enjoy the effects of whatever was in that bottle too. Samantha tried desperately to suppress the spike of alarm in her blood as it raced to her brain.

She smiled and took a sip. “Ah!” She choked. The whiskey burned her throat as it went down but she swallowed gamely.

Billy slapped her thigh and laughed uproariously. “Been a while huh? You know we used to drink this a lot together back in the day. What’s it been? Two years? Samantha only had vague memories of a period in her life she’d tried desperately to block out. Must have been when she was Angela at the time. She was sure this was the persona Billy wanted, but Angela was silent. _Where are you?_ She asked Angela in irritation in her mind. _Isn’t this where you come out swinging?_

Briefly Samantha wondered whether Sherlock would kill this man in the very near future. He had an image to upkeep as her boyfriend and all, she thought bitterly, taking another sip. _Asshole._ Maybe she’d _let_ Billy fuck her to get even. The thought made for a heady brew of fear in her belly. This was not who she was or wanted to be. Suddenly she wondered if this wasn’t an indication Angela had been integrated and she was actually the spiteful type. She wasn’t thinking clearly. She had to escape.

Samantha laughed again and stretched. “That _is_ good. Thanks!” She stood up and started to walk towards the door. Her bag was across the room so she turned around as though she were absently enjoying her drink and took another sip. The sting had worn off and she felt a little dizzy. She did not drink hard alcohol as a rule and the effect was somewhat unexpected even without drugs. “So what brings you to England?” she asked in the most conversational tone given the circumstances.

“Ah, well this and that. Hey you ever hear from Nathan?” He was testing her then. Samantha felt the blood rise to her ears. This was complete bullshit.

“Nope, I don’t expect I’ll ever hear from him again.” She gave him a sly smile and a wink. _Bring it on motherfucker. Piece of shit asshole._ “Listen Billy, it was nice to see you but I’ve really got to be going.” She set down the glass on the dresser opposite the bed and went to retrieve her bag. She jammed her hand into the pocket but the pepper spray was gone. How long had she been out? Why hadn’t this occurred to her? Should she scream?

“Yeah, I was worried you’d go for that.” Billy set the bottle down on the side table and approached her with slow menace. “I didn’t think you’d actually try though. I thought we were friends.”

This was it then. The moment of truth. _Double diamond time._

“I have a boyfriend, Billy. You do _not_ want to _fuck_ with this man.” She blurted dumbly. God she hoped she would still be valuable to Sherlock given that the file’s discovery may have introduced an unwanted variable in the nature of his experiment.

“Oh, I don’t think that’s a problem. You didn’t seem to think that was a problem _before_.” He stepped towards her ever so slightly and she backed up involuntarily in disgust. Goddamn you, Angela, she cursed.

Samantha prayed. She prayed to Sherlock as every muscle in her tensed for an attack she was ready to make while uncertain of the outcome.

Suddenly there was a knock on the window and both her and Billy looked up in alarm. The sound was strange and Samantha didn’t register it until she saw the outline of a gun and a charcoal coat. _Sherlock?_

“Think maybe you could let me in? It’s a bit damp out here. And my hands are getting _shaky_.” The threatening rumble in his voice was unmistakable. Billy should really open the window.

Her attacker was frozen in place so Samantha made her way over to the window very slowly, hoping he wouldn’t make a move. As she flicked the latch she couldn’t help but notice Sherlock was perched on the ledge of the second story. _Like a fucking gazelle this man_ , she thought in admiration. He might be an asshole but he was still full of surprises.

Sherlock didn’t look at her though as he began to lower himself into the room, deftly keeping his pistol aimed at Billy.

“I really don’t want to clean up his body parts in the kitchen, Sherlock,” She said in her own growling voice at Billy, who looked very much like he was about to lose control of his bladder with the dawning realization she was serious.

“Well, that’s up to him isn’t it, _ma chéri_? Filling out such police reports really is so _tedious_.” Samantha winced a little at his use of the endearment but maintained her composure, narrowing her eyes at Billy instead.

Sensing he might actually be murdered by someone _very_ shortly Billy bolted for the door. Sherlock took aim and was about to fire, but Samantha found herself pushing his weapon off kilter on instinct. As she turned towards Sherlock she saw his bewildered and then annoyed expression.

Billy threw open the door, only to have another handgun pointed at his face at close range. “Hello there,” John announced, holding his pistol squarely between Billy’s eyes, which were wide in shock, seemingly unable to comprehend his situation. A wet patch of urine stained Billy's jeans as he raised his hands. _Well that was satisfying._ “Everything alright in here?” John queried in a disturbingly casual voice that reminded Samantha again he was ex-military.

Samantha nodded before turning to Sherlock and spitting, “I was serious goddammit! Really _don’t_ want to clean up his body parts and I’m in no mood to file a murder report!”

Sherlock grinned. He _actually_ grinned at her. She found herself overcome with rage. He had no right, absolutely _no right_ to be smug right now. She felt her eyes get cloudy with tears. _Goddammit not now_ , she moaned in her mind.

She stood facing Sherlock, unsure of whether she should slap him or kill him or kiss him or…Sherlock lowered his gun and reached out his hand. Childishly she took it and curled into his chest, smelling the familiar aroma of a man she couldn’t help but love.

“Right then.” John motioned for Billy to take a seat. “I think perhaps a call to Lestrade is in order?”

Billy stumbled over to the table keeping his arms and hands above his waist. _Not surprised he’s familiar with the drill_ , Samantha thought wryly.

“How many times?” Sherlock asked John inquisitively. _And hopefully_.

“Oh, I don’t know,” John sighed. “How many times do you think he’ll fall out of the window?”

Sherlock hummed as he looked Billy over. Samantha knew he was making a number of calculations in his mind about how much physical damage could be inflicted to bring this man to within an inch of losing his life.

“I have an idea,” she suddenly chirped enthusiastically. “I don’t suppose I can have the honors this time?”

Sherlock and John gaped at her and she smiled sweetly. Billy’s face filled with abject horror as she unfolded herself from Sherlock’s arm and made her way over to the dresser. She took the bottle of Jack by the neck and turned to Sherlock.

“I’m not very good at this, so perhaps you can tell me how to proceed?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Ah…yes. If it were me, I’d swing up and around the side of his head, just under the ear.”

John crossed his arms and rubbed his lower lip, frowning in concentration. “Ta, that sounds about right. She probably got in a good swing before we got here. Just one though. It wouldn’t make much sense for more than that. Make it count, Samantha.”

Billy choked back a sob and tears drifted down his cheeks. Samantha approached him and beamed. She was really enjoying herself. She leaned down to his face so her eyes could level with his.

“Billy, if I don’t kill you now, will you swear on your life—because let me be clear you _are_ swearing on your life—that I will never see your face again?”

Billy nodded fervently.

“Good. Then I will only hit you at 75% power ok? I think that’s fair, don’t you?” Billy made a move to run again but Sherlock and John raised the barrels of their pistols in agreement that he should take his medicine.

Samantha swung her arm in a wide arc and let the bottle smack Billy nice and clean behind his ear. Not enough force to break it on his skull. She really didn’t want to risk killing him—she and Sherlock had a _lot_ to discuss later.


	5. You Think You Deserve A Trust Fund

Samantha seemed to be holding her mind together rather well, considering she had ingested a moderate amount of whiskey laced with rohypnol intentionally to make an escape from a rapist in a hotel room. She didn’t think the way men did—the way Sherlock had to for cases—so somewhere in her mind she’d neglected to consider how a man who could drag an unconscious woman to a hotel room would certainly go through her bag and relieve her of her only weapon. She wasn’t stupid, but she was still so hopelessly oblivious when it came to recognizing threats. _Threats like himself._ For all intents and purposes unless she wore the mask of Angela she was “fresh meat”. He was still annoyed she wouldn’t let him fire a shot at Billy. But it was more gratifying to see her take back some of herself—by smashing a bottle against Billy’s skull with a force Sherlock thought might have been more than the promised 75%.

They very nearly hadn’t found her in time. He and John were ready to call the police when they ran into a man walking his dog who asked if they were looking for a woman matching Samantha’s description, explaining how he’d seen a man carrying an unconscious woman into a hotel just up the street. The man was obliging and friendly enough until Sherlock forced him, nearly at gunpoint, to take him to the hotel. Unable to deduce her location from the first floor Sherlock had burst into several rooms and terrorized guests to no avail, before deciding the best course of action was to simply climb up and see what he could from the balconies on the second floor. For once John did not try to dissuade him from taking such initiative.

As he watched Samantha give her statement to the officers at the scene he kept his fists clenched at his sides and tried to focus on her every breath, the intonation of her words—desperately looking for any unconscious gestures that might indicate what she was planning to do after the police were finished with their investigation. She hadn’t looked at him once after Billy blacked out and Lestrade arrived.

She had enough drugs and alcohol in her body to make her cheeks flushed and her words slur ever so slightly, but her posture and facial expressions were kept under tight control up until the paramedic tried to lay a blanket over her shoulders.

“GET THE FUCK OFFA ME!” Samantha screeched, her eyes lit with fury. The paramedic stumbled backwards obediently and managed an imploring glance at John, who made a hasty approach to snatch a blanket up from the ground where it had fallen. He held it between his hands for when Samantha would undoubtedly need it, John looking every bit like her military issued bodyguard. Even though she loathed being treated like a victim it was only a matter of time before the shock would set in.

Finally, they were allowed to go and the three of them caught a cab back to Baker Street. Sherlock dared to hope her willingness to accompany them meant she was planning on going up to the flat but he wasn’t certain until he felt her tiny pinky finger hook around his own in between them. Wide eyed in disbelief at his luck he turned towards her but her gaze remained focused on some unseen distance ahead of them. She was in her mind after all, but she was struggling not to go too far. Somehow he understood Samantha was hanging on until it was safe to come apart completely. John gave Sherlock an unspoken nod that they didn’t have much longer before that was likely to happen. Her entire body tensed as the car pulled up to the curb. John smartly jumped out to pay the cabbie and Sherlock opened her door. As she stepped out her legs buckled and he caught her. The bright flush of indignation on her cheeks seemed to be directed at her body and not towards him, so he risked scooping her up into his arms to carry her inside. He was somewhat prepared for her to strike him, but instead she hid her face in his neck and chest.

John ran interference on Mrs. Hudson, who seemed particularly intent on filling her up with tea and cookies and shooing the men away. Samantha began to shake uncontrollably as they approached the landing and she made little whimpers as she fought back her sobs. Sensing the impending onslaught of emotions he rushed her inside to his bedroom, seating her on the bed and closing the door to mask any of the sounds he knew were coming. Thank God John had the wherewithal to remove the file before he left the flat that afternoon.

Samantha sat shivering in silence for one minute and 38 seconds. He knew because he counted each and every one as though it was a ticking time bomb. Sherlock pulled his comforter around her shoulders and looked into her vacant eyes. Suddenly they refocused and her breath caught up in a tight gasp before her face contorted in agony. He’d never heard a human being wail the way she did—strangled sobs and retching and incoherent stammering. Every time he reached to pull her into his arms she pushed him away, shrieking disjointed obscenities but still clenching his shirt so he wouldn’t leave her. Dully he understood he was the primary focus of her misery and not the man who’d tried to attack her only hours before. Her mind was simply trying to reconcile the influx of data. And so he hung his head in disgrace and waited. John would not be able to help this time. This was his mess. His fault. His punishment.

It was then with an insurmountable degree of shock when he felt her wrap her arms around his neck and she fell on top of him onto the floor. She sat up and jerked off her tee as she straddled his thighs.    

“Sa—Samantha—” he stammered but was interrupted by her tongue parting his lips insistently. He hummed into her mouth and arched his hips against her despite himself. “Stop Samantha,” he panted as he gripped her shoulders in an effort to get her to calm down.

Her eyes had become strangely focused and almost normal, though they sparkled with ferocious intensity now and this vision was painfully beautiful. “Samantha?” his voice wavered the question; afraid it would not be his Samantha who answered. She collapsed into his chest and hid her face in indignation.

“I’m so sorry,” he began and cleared his throat. “You’ve had a terrible experience and—”

“Prove it,” came the muffled reply into his pectoral muscles.

“Prove what? I don’t—,” he faltered, appalled by his lack of understanding of how to proceed. _She was clearly—_

“I’m not drugged if that’s what you’re wondering. I didn’t ingest enough of the shit for it to last this long. _And_ I’m me,” she shot bitterly, narrowing her eyes and then looking away in a huff.

“Then…why?” He longed to touch her but he refused to allow himself to hurt her anymore than he already had.

“ _Because I need you, Sherlock!_ ” He felt the wetness from her eyes soaking his shirt. “I need to know you still want me.” She bit her lip hard enough he was afraid she would draw blood. “I need to know that no matter what you saw in that file that you really do love me. And if you don’t I still need you to give yourself to me now because I need to forget what—”

He snarled and pulled her mouth to his before she could finish her sentence. He tasted her tongue, which was still flavored with the cursed whiskey. Ever since that bastard had tried to touch her, had probably touched her in fact, he’d experienced an uncomfortably primal desire to reclaim what was _his_. He denied himself the luxury of entertaining the idea ever since he’d climbed through the hotel window. He could no longer hold back once she’d given her consent.

She moaned into his kiss and he cradled her face in his palms as he rolled her underneath his body and sank his hips between her legs, seeking friction for his aching cock. He bit into the tender bit of flesh behind her ear and she bucked her hips underneath him.  

If she wanted to forget he would gladly assist her. He thumbed her nipples through her bra roughly and slid his other hand between her legs and squeezed, causing her to gasp sharply.

“Please hurry,” she whimpered and held her arms out to him in an open embrace. She was his all-forgiving goddess, so precious that if he were a better man he would have stopped. But he wasn’t a better man, and he would not deny either of them this request.

The speed at which he managed to rip off her jeans and panties and unzip his trousers was surreal. He gripped her thighs, bruising her tender flesh to spread her legs apart and licked a hungry stripe from her cunt to her clit, testing her readiness for him. She threw back her head and wailed, carding her fingers through his hair as he fucked her with his tongue before screaming she couldn’t take anymore. “Inside me _NOW_ , Sherlock,” she panted as she fisted his head away from her quim and pulled him forward. The pain from this gesture stoked the fire in that primitive hindbrain and he growled. He began to slide into her with as much restraint as he could muster and she clawed at his chest in frustration, leaving long welts in her wake. He leaned forward and bit the circumference of one of her nipples through the fabric of her bra to distract her from any pain she was about to feel from him entering her and snapped his hips forward, impaling her with his prick. They both let out a guttural groan at the relief, before she fisted his hair again, bringing his mouth back to hers and spreading her legs wider, inviting him to go deeper, to fill her completely and make her only remember him. She was his love. _His._ God help any man who might try to take her from him again. He marked his territory by sucking bruises on her neck and breasts and fucking her cunt like a savage beast. He hissed when she returned the favor, biting his shoulder hard enough to nearly draw blood, and he was pleased he would wear the marks from her teeth for days. Sweat trickled from his brow with his exertions and he could see Samantha was in no better shape but he simply didn’t care. He wanted to destroy her and put her back together again, and have her do the same for him. He wanted to die inside her, with her, to snake into her heart and make a home for himself where she could never make him leave. But in the end she was the one taking him apart with every thrust and clench of her muscles, every swipe of her tongue and bite to his lips.

“ _ **Break** me, Sherlock._ ” She hissed, barring her teeth but daring him to comply.

“As you wish, _mon Coeur_ ,” he answered, bending her nearly in half and slamming his cock into her at a ridiculous rhythm. She ripped her fingernails under his ribs before cruelly twisting his nipples between her fingers and he issued a silent scream. Electricity in his spine snapped at the sensation and he howled as he spilled into her in painfully throbbing bursts. His vision went white but he continued to thrust deeper until he felt her body tighten into the shudder of release, milking his cock for everything he possessed.

 _“ **Mine,** ”_ he rumbled into her mouth in heated breaths and she smiled, pulling him down into her arms.

“Yours,” she murmured into his neck, still huffing from the exertion. He held her to him as long as he dared to keep the spell from breaking, until he forced himself to back away and help her off the floor. She took his hand and unhooked her bra, and then slid off his shirt before leading him to the bed to join her under the covers. Something about staying soaked in their filth felt right in this moment, a reminder of how they had completely defiled one another’s bodies. As Samantha pulled up the covers he wrapped his body around her possessively and she allowed it, relaxing into what he hoped was the security of his touch.


	6. Seven Devils Bring Them In

"What are you thinking about Sherlock?" Samantha looked up from his chest in consternation. They had been awake for over half an hour and laid in bed in silence.

Sherlock had more than enough time to think about a lot of things he didn't particularly want to consider. The first of which was whether they would be discussing the file he’d hidden from her for weeks in his bedroom. It was a necessary conversation but he feared after having it she might leave him and never look back, despite her current presence at his side and the events of the previous evening.

"Alright then," she sighed. "Let's get it over with." He winced as she propped herself up on her arms regarding him thoughtfully.

"Did you ask for that file?" She held her breath as he shook his head.

"No. Mycroft gave it to me."

"When?"

"After...the airport." Another wince. This would be a point of contention.

She appraised him with a little frown before her face relaxed. "I suppose that makes sense. It was very thorough. No wonder you didn't worry about us using protection." Samantha forced a wry smile.

Sherlock nodded slightly. "I wasn't going to look, Samantha. I just—"

"You're you Sherlock. You would have looked eventually. It's in your nature."

He couldn't deny she was right. He was so terribly curious about her and there was so much data at his fingertips for the taking. All he’d really needed was an excuse.

"Tell me this though. Do you think that file represents all of who I am?"

"No," he said honestly. "You're much more than that."

"Am I an experiment to you?"

Her words stung him. If anyone besides her asked him he would have been inclined to say yes.

"No. You are not."

"I didn't think so, but..."

"But I am who I am?" He finished and looked away towards the ceiling. He looked back down to her, running his fingers through her hair. What could he say to assure her his feelings were genuine? It was true in the beginning he had thought of her as a pet project to stave off boredom and then later because her disorder was so fascinating. But then his emotions got the better of him...yes. That was the way to go. Emotionally. "I love you Samantha."

She smiled faintly. He didn't say that often enough. He would have to try harder. "I love you too," she said sweetly before she issued a tight pinch to his cheek and added in a darkened tone, " _even if I do want to hurt you some more now_."

"I—I can understand why you might feel that way," he stuttered, surprised by the searing pain she’d inflicted so suddenly. He was still terribly sore. His Samantha was a goddess of forgiveness, but her eyes had taken on a predatory gleam that made him uncomfortable.

"No, Sherlock. I don't think you understand at all." She dragged her nails across his chest, raking over bruises that still burned. "I mean I _really_ want to hurt you." She wasn't smiling anymore. She was serious. "That file really doesn’t represent who I am. I believe you think you know more about me than you really do.” He opened his mouth to protest but she placed a finger over his lips. “Did you think I didn't notice yesterday? The way you looked at me?"

She pinched his nipple cruelly and he gasped. "Explain."

Samantha sat up to level her gaze in challenge. "You were thinking I was incapable of dealing with...Billy." Her nose crinkled in disgust when she said his name. "You were thinking I should have remembered he might have taken my pepper spray. Or that because I found the file I dissociated and that's why he was able to...do what he did. You were probably even thinking there for a while before you found me that I might have slipped into acting like Angela again. That perhaps I'd gone off to find someone to screw to get even with you."

His face contorted in pain. She really _did_ mean to hurt him. But she was right. He had thought all of those things. And more.

"You see," she began again, circling the apex of his hardened nipple with the tip of her nail. "Somewhere in your mind you've got me on a pedestal of sorts." She raised her eyebrows in question and he tried to hold his breath so he wouldn't give in to groaning, as the pain quickly turned into arousal. Instead he forced himself to listen. "You think as long as I'm me, just Samantha, that I'm incapable of cruelty."

"Samantha...do you...hate me now?" He cleared his throat and was surprised to hear her chuckle.

"Oh no, Sherlock," she grinned wickedly. "I think I might love you now more than ever."

"Oh...well. That's ...a relief...What would help you...process these emotions?" He suppressed another gasp as she leaned over to bite his other nipple.

"I'm not sure who's fooling who here anymore, Sherlock. It seems you're unaware of the emotions _you_ need to process."

"Interesting." He tried not to arch his back as she slid her nails over his naked thighs.

"Mmm hmm."

"Please- _ah!_ -elaborate further."

She leaned in to his jaw and bit her teeth into it severely. "No."

He was overcome with confusion and arousal. "No?"

“Nope." She stood up and pulled on her knickers and threaded her arms through her bra.

"Where are you going?" The absence of her body already made icy panic begin to congeal in his belly, replacing the fire she’d started only moments before.

Samantha smiled as she slid into her jeans and tee shirt. "Home," then added almost as an afterthought, "I expect you to be there later. Say 5 hours? No. Better make it 6."

"Why not now?" He actually whined. His erection felt omnipresent and he wanted to see more of this mythical side to her.

"Because you need to be punished, Sherlock."

Suddenly the room got very bright with an expansive dilation of his pupils and he realized he was gaping at her. Punished? Briefly he considered whether he’d misheard her. Surely not…

"Oh," she called as she grabbed her bag on her way out the door. "And no touching yourself or you will have to wait another day. At least. Don’t make me ask John to keep an eye on you.” With a kiss blown in goodbye she was gone.

Sherlock reclined into the pillows and laid there for several minutes as his mind tried to reconcile what was happening. She said she wanted to _really_ hurt him. Making him worry with anticipation over a prospective punishment for several hours was definitely unpleasant but wasn’t really painful. She knew he’d be impatient and used that to her advantage. It definitely involved sex. He hoped. Absently he massaged his aching nipples and realized he was grinning.


	7. Spinning It Tight Down South

Samantha felt an incredible rush of exhilaration wash over her as she exited the flat on Baker Street and hailed a cab. She was going shopping. She already had her stilettos and a corset secreted in the back of her closet. She almost grabbed Sherlock’s riding crop from the umbrella stand but realized it may have been used for something unsavory and elected to buy one of her own. Black leather of course—something that would hiss through the air and sting the flesh. Leash with chain. Sherlock’s skin was so beautiful and she didn’t want to do any lasting damage, so she’d need to find one with a decent lining. She giggled. Perhaps she’d make it some girlish color just to see his embarrassment. Next item. Wrist restraints that could be wound through the D-ring brackets she’d be installing in her apartment before he got there. She’d need a stud finder and a drill. Sherlock had to be truly secure or this wasn’t going to work. He needed to know in the very core of his being that he was helpless and that she was in control. Otherwise she’d never be able to use the most critical item on her list. Samantha licked her lips and realized she was getting wet. She should've known, but dammit if this wasn’t going to be painful for her too. But this was necessary. It’s what he needed from her and she loved him. And truly, it’s what she needed him to see in her. Otherwise they’d never get past this little kink in their relationship.


	8. She’s Got You Shaving Your Legs

3 hours and 52 minutes later Sherlock’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

 _Still waiting?_ Samantha’s text was playful enough and Sherlock smiled.

 _Yes -SH._ He replied, enjoying himself more than he thought possible given that he had no idea what was waiting for him at her place.

 _Garçon mou_.

Well _that_ reply was certainly promising. “Sweet boy.” He’d known for weeks she’d been practicing French with the way her accent changed ever so slightly. If he’d been anyone else she might have been able to keep her secret.

_Shall I bring anything for tonight? Wine? Cheese?-SH_

He sent his text feeling very much like he was trying to get his parents to disclose some hint about what Santa was bringing him for Christmas. The jolly fellow had never made sense, but Samantha had him believing in other kinds of magic.

_Maybe for after we talk. A first aid kit perhaps?_

Sherlock read and re-read the text over again in disbelief. His hands began to shake. He was just so… _bloody happy_.


	9. Boy I Think You Need A Conversion

Sherlock considered whether he should show up early just to make Samantha angry enough to _really_ hurt him as she promised. But she said he was a _sweet boy_. And a sweet boy he would be. He received another text as he exited the cab.

_The door is unlocked. Wear the blindfold._

Well that wasn’t unexpected. He was rather hoping the surprise would require him to be blindfolded. He was giddy with anticipation. Samantha wasn’t a professional dominatrix of course. He’d known one of those. A career colleague one might say. The last 6 hours he’d envisioned Samantha in some sort of lace teddy number and maybe slapping him around a little bit until they could get down the business of fucking their brains out. She was so shy and embarrassed about showing off her body.

He pulled the scarf off the doorknob and wrapped it around his head as tightly as possible and entered her flat. The lock clicked behind him and he felt her tiny hand wrap around his wrist, pulling him forward down the hall and to her bedroom in silence. She was barefooted and she was trying—in vain, he noted—to regulate her breathing. He imagined her expression—brows furrowed in concentration and straining to control her fear—he didn’t bother trying to hide his grin. This was fun.

“Strip.” She ordered him in a firm voice and he complied, saying nothing. The excitement he felt from having her look at his naked body whilst being blindfolded was delicious. He felt her eyes on him as she made a circle to retrieve something from her dresser. _Something metal._ She cleared her throat and he heard a chain fall against the carpet. Deftly she wrapped a collar around his neck. So she was going to get kinkier than he expected. His primitive hindbrain whipped in alarm with the weight of the thing but it sent a delectable shiver down his spine and straight to his prick and bollocks, which were more interested than wary. He stiffened his back and allowed her to fasten it unhindered and then registered with some shock that she was also attaching cuffs. They were all very good quality, and he hoped she’d let him pitch in for the props later. She was on a student’s budget after all. So far Samantha had gone further in her efforts to “punish” him than he’d anticipated, but while his body was supremely interested his intellect was little more than slightly amused. He was drawn from his reverie as she guided him backwards to the far wall, which smelled of fresh wood shavings and sawdust. Her breathing quickened as he heard chains rattling behind him. _Chains. Christ, had she destroyed her wall just to impress him?_ This notion set the follicles of every hair on his body on high alert, and his heretofore semi-bored prefrontal lobe shot into a sudden awareness he should really be paying more attention to his surroundings.

“Samantha?” He hadn’t meant for her to hear the break in his voice but she giggled in response. She must have felt silly doing this, he reasoned before he registered the tight clips of metal against metal, securing his arms to the wall and then another clip secured a chain to the collar around his neck. Her giggle did allay his apprehension somewhat, but only barely.

She hummed with satisfaction and he knew she was kneeling in front of him.

“Do you trust me, Sherlock?” She asked with a certain degree of hesitation that made him question whether he _should_ in fact trust her. He tugged at the chains as he considered his answer and found his range of motion limited to a couple feet away from the wall at best. She’d laced the chain connecting his cuffs through brackets; so he could slide down on his knees and bend over to fuck her under him if that’s what she had in mind. Sherlock did a number of calculations in his mind and decided the danger was minimal enough to continue.

“Yes?” He cleared his throat, which had gone suddenly very dry. He hadn’t meant for the answer to come out as a question, and he noted with irritation he’d started perspiring only slightly.

“Good boy.” Suddenly her breath was hot against his erection and she took him into the wet heat of her mouth like a lollipop. He groaned and decided he didn’t mind being restrained as much as he’d thought. He bucked his hips forward only a fraction but Samantha didn’t seem to mind. The blindfold was a brilliant idea, as the sensations of her scratching her nails up his thighs and the texture of her lips and tongue were heightened exponentially. Clever girl. She planted tender kisses up the length of his shaft and massaged his bollocks with one hand while she squeezed the swell of his arse with the other.

“ _Merci_ , Samantha,” he panted as waves of pleasure rolled over him and he felt his nipples tighten.

She moaned around his crown and he found himself quite lost in the sensation of her tonguing his slit, until he felt cold metal clamp around his cock. _Holy shit_.

The click of the lock just above the root of his shaft after being secured up and around his bollocks was possibly the most horrifying thing he’d ever heard. His mind pulled up the image of her sucking him off at the Baskerville Inn. She had measured his cock with her eyes for future reference. And that future had arrived.

“Samantha…” He tried to pull his hands forward to inspect the device and possibly liberate himself but realized with startling clarity he couldn’t reach. When he tired to remove his blindfold Samantha jerked his head forward away from his hands, reminding him she had a leash around his neck. A wave of panic set in and he instinctively struggled to extricate himself, straining his body weight against the chains. He could have pulled hard enough to loosen the metal clasps from drywall, but Samantha had been clever enough to secure the restraints to studs. Samantha issued a low laugh in amusement and he could tell by the change in the air temperature she had moved away from his body, standing up and walking away. _She meant business_.

“Are you finished testing your strength, big man?” She was _chiding_ him. Him of all people…reduced to this state of affairs just to impress a woman. He loved Samantha but this was going too far even for him. Christmas had been cancelled and he was left feeling very sour.

“Yes, I believe I am quite done now. You’ve made your point.” He tried to keep his voice level so she wouldn’t detect the undercurrent of anger, cursing the way his traitorous member had engorged further, straining against the cage. The sensation was equal parts painful and arousing, and Sherlock bit his lip to distract himself from the influx of somatic data.

“Oh, I don’t think I have, _Mon Garçon Chéri_. We _are_ just getting started after all.” Referring to him as “her darling boy” in French sounded obscenely cruel given how he was sure she had read his expression and body language as being less than enthusiastic, bordering on furious.

Sherlock reached out towards her in an effort to grab her arm. If he could pull her close and kiss her perhaps he could dissuade her from continuing this charade of domination. He would forgive her of course. She had somehow misinterpreted his desires…

“I promised you punishment, Sherlock.” Her voice had an air of seriousness that he wasn’t prepared for at all. She wasn’t done proving her point. There would be more horror. The cock cage, while uncomfortable, wasn’t too tight to be dangerous. Vaguely he noted she hadn’t chosen the size to hurt him, but to add to the effect of helplessness he was experiencing being chained to a wall.

“And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I shouldn’t have looked at your file. I should have told you…” Sherlock begged. My god, he was _begging._ It was humiliating just to hear his voice. This wasn’t his love, his Samantha. This had to be another part of her.

She made an exasperated sound and stepped towards him. She wasn’t barefoot anymore. _Never mind. This wasn’t the time to think about her feet._ A hiss flew through the air and he faintly registered it was the sound of a riding crop just as it struck his left buttock. He howled in pain and she laughed. _She laughed_ , but then there was an undercurrent of fear in her voice that made him doubt whether she was actually enjoying herself.

 _“Vous êtes un mauvais homme, Sherlock,”_ she spat angrily. Adrenaline spiked his blood and suddenly the pain registered as good. Divine even. _He was a bad man._ Especially now. He was so turned on he could hardly stand it. Another hiss through the air and a bloom of searing pain flared on his other arse cheek. Sherlock snarled as another, then another followed in its wake, and he could feel his pre-ejaculate dripping from the metal imprisoning his cock. Unexpectedly the cock cage made quite a bit more sense as he realized he would not be able to come like this. He heard Samantha pause a moment, before he felt the tip of the riding crop grazing his left nipple and then a circle around the right. She was no professional dominatrix, and therefore wouldn’t know how much pain she could inflict without causing real damage, but surprisingly Sherlock found that all the more arousing. He might be wearing these marks for a week or more. Samantha must have liked her handiwork because he could hear her licking her lips and humming in satisfaction. “Spread your legs, _vous garçon dégoûtant_!” With a stifled sob Sherlock complied and his head swam as he felt her batting the crop between his legs. Was she going to strike his cock next? Sherlock was nearly hoping for it. No. He was gagging for it.

She loosened the slack on his leash and ordered, _“Regardez vous-même!”_

Realizing he had permission to remove the blindfold he raised his hands and did so with some hesitation. He inspected the safety of his genitals before meeting her eyes. Everything was fine for the most part, except that he was aching with arousal and it didn’t appear as though she was going to let him use his cock anytime soon.

Samantha was a revelation to behold. She met his gaze defiantly, completely naked except for a black leather corset that pushed up her breasts into great swells of milky-white tender flesh accented by the hardened peaks of her rosy nipples. She teetered on the carpet in her black stilettos. Her chocolate curls cascaded over her shoulders and he noted with significant satisfaction that the curls of her pubic hair were slick with desire. He beamed. But why? He was completely at her mercy. This was absurd. And yet she had done all this for him. He realized with incredible clarity what she meant when she said he had some emotions he needed to process—that he _needed_ to be punished by her.

“Sherlock,” she began with unexpected timidity in her voice, “Do you want me to continue? I will stop if you want me to. I don’t actually want to hurt you. Not…too badly. And we don’t have a safeword. I just thought—”

“No,” he panted and sank to his knees with his arms at his sides. “Please…continue.” What was he saying? He dismissed any hesitation from his egocentric brain with a flick of his wrist. His transport was begging him not to waste a chance to find out where this situation may go.

She smiled at him adoringly and stepped forward, idly brushing the end of the riding crop over his leaking cock and coating the leather. She bit her lip, considering her next words carefully.

 _“Que voulez-vous faire maintenant?” What do you want to do now?_ A reasonable request given they had not, in fact established a safeword. And he was reasonably certain Samantha had reached the pinnacle of her research, though he hoped she wouldn’t wait to long to employ more of her studies in the very near future.

He swallowed hard, as one clear thought lit in his mind like lightning. Dangerous enough that it could change her perception of him forever, regardless of their current state of affairs. _What would she think of him?_

 _“Je…veux votre pied dans ma bouche.”_ He said the words quietly, looking through his eyelashes, unable to meet her eyes directly.

Samantha’s eyes widened and a blush crept all the way from her breasts to her ears as she realized he just asked her to put her foot in his mouth. She sat down on the floor and slid her lush, naked bottom across the carpet. She was the one who looked wary now. Perhaps she was afraid he might actually try to fuck her with the cock cage still restraining him. But at this moment the device was so… _liberating_.

He took her ankle and watched her expression intently as he painted a long lick on the patent leather, giving it a gorgeous sheen before he removed her shoe and inserted her big toe into his mouth. She had bathed before he arrived, and her skin smelled sweetly of lavender. He moaned as he tongued between her toes and she gasped, making a little “o” with her lips. Her back arched and she stammered, _“vous êtes –ah!—tel a le perverti!”_. He _was_ a pervert and he grinned. She really had studied up on French just for him. He was sure he’d never loved her as much as he did in that moment. Of course, she was no better. She was clearly enjoying having him chained to a wall and lapping at her toes like an animal in heat, if her dripping cunt was any indication on the matter.  

Suddenly he was struck by an impulse and dragged her forward beneath him. She shrieked with surprise as he cradled her back and lifted her hips to his face, taking her sex into his mouth, hungry to taste the slickness of her arousal. The whimper she made was exquisite and he thrust two fingers into her pussy as he laved her clit. She was so beautiful. So very, very beautiful as she cried out his name over and over again, her muscles clenching his fingers and sucking them further into her body. Thankfully he was tall enough he was able to set her down in his lap and continue fucking her with his fingers while guiding her toes back into his mouth, sucking hungrily. As Sherlock nibbled on her middle toe a spasm of ecstasy washed over her in a deep shudder, and she was left panting underneath him. He might be chained to a wall but she was at his mercy now. He smiled in satisfaction at his handiwork and rubbed circles around her reddened clit as her body continued to writhe and spasm.

“Have you deduced where the key is yet detective?” She giggled in delight as he thrust his hand between her breasts and retrieved it from a small pocket in the top of her corset. Having received permission, the speed with which he removed the male chastity belt was remarkable, and his erection hardened considerably with its release. He planned to fuck her silly for putting him through this.

He yanked her legs and pulled her up into his lap, ramming himself into her cunt as deeply as he could possibly manage with the chains around his wrists. She laughed hysterically and reached out her arms so he could lift her onto his hips and cradle her against him as he thrust into her further. He cursed God for being so tall that he couldn't reach her nipples and Samantha seemed to read his mind, raising herself off of his cock enough for him to nibble at their tips before trailing his teeth up her neck. With a sharp intake of breath she sank back onto him and gave herself over to his rhythm, slow but savage. He decided he wanted to take his time and draw out his release if it were at all possible, reveling in the experience of being restrained and fucking the woman he loved more than life itself.

“Oh my God, Samantha…I love you so much,” he panted into her mouth. She kissed him ardently in response, circling his tongue with her own and nipping at his upper lip. She whimpered and tears formed along her lower lashes. “Promise me you will never leave me.” He felt uncomfortably vulnerable as he said these words, but in that moment he felt he had to hear again that she was his. Perhaps he would never stop needing to hear that, but the weight of the collar around his neck made the question a moot one at best.

“I promise,” she cried and her body stiffened in anticipation. He reached down and rubbed circles around her clit. “Please…Sherlock I’m close.”

“Me too…your pussy feels so good, Samantha…so good.” Her pupils turned utterly black and her body began to tremble. He knew she was desperately holding out for him though and he couldn’t help grinning. He was driving her mad. _One more push._ “Come for me Samantha. Come on my filthy cock,” he whispered in her ear and bit the tender flesh. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she screamed. The effect was so satisfying he convulsed into ecstasy too, filling her completely in throbbing bursts.

Huffing and panting he realized she’d passed out. _Fuck_. Where was the key to the chains? For several minutes he just stared at her until she regained consciousness.

“Oh…Sherlock…I love you too,” she murmured dazedly. “Happy birthday.”

She pulled away and practically fell off his lap. With her legs still shaking she managed to crawl behind him and retrieve the key that had been just behind his ankles against the wall the whole time. He marveled at the sheer audacity and shrewdness of this gesture. If he hadn’t been so focused on her he could have escaped. Which was a sort of poignant way of summing up the entirety of their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mon Garçon Chéri  
> -My sweet boy
> 
> "Vous êtes un mauvais homme, Sherlock."  
> -You are a bad man, Sherlock.
> 
> "Spread your legs, vous garçon dégoûtant."  
> -Spread your legs, you filthy boy.
> 
> "Regardez vous-même!"  
> -Look at yourself!"
> 
> "Que voulez-vous faire maintenant?"  
> -What do you want to do now?
> 
> "Je…veux votre pied dans ma bouche."  
> -I...want your foot in my mouth.
> 
> "Vous êtes –ah!—tel a le perverti!"  
> -You are-ah!-such a pervert!
> 
>  
> 
> I hope you enjoyed my first foray into BDSM. There will be more, and Angela will show up soon to have a little talk with Sherlock as well. Thanks for reading and please leave comments or suggestions!


End file.
